


Virtues

by Thoughts Like A Minefield (Incog_Ninja)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Team Free Will, Weechesters, samwena implied, samwitch implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 16:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19795096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Thoughts%20Like%20A%20Minefield
Summary: Prompt(s): I have another prompt for your flashfic thingy! "Have you ever licked a lamp post in winter?" For spn? (It's one of my favorite quotes from dragon age so I would love to see what you can do with it. Also! ANOTHER prompt (f/an actual convo between me and my favorite cousin): "oh, what a beautiful bloodbath." "don't forget the glitter!"Hi!!! For your follower thingy, can you do a spn fic with the prompt: “patience is a virtue” “not right now it isn’t”? It can be Sam or dean or just crack but yeah… Please?





	Virtues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peridot_tea91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peridot_tea91/gifts).



“Ever lick a lamppost in winter?”

The air is cold and damp, and every word uttered from Dean’s lips is escorted by breath turned to icy mist.

“I saw the movie, butt head,” Sam answers, shoving his hands deeper in his Carhartt pockets.

“What movie?” Dean asks.

“The Christmas one where the kid gets double-dog dared to lick a lamppost and they have to call the fire department and then he goes back to class with his tongue wrapped in a bandage?” Little Sammy rolls his eyes next to his big brother as they walk to the school they’re attending this month.

Dean laughs, tossing his closed pocket knife in the air and catching it over and over. “A Christmas Story,” he says with a laugh. “What a classic. _‘Fra-gee-lay! It’s Italian!’_ ” He laughs again, and Sam echoes.

“So, no, I’ve never done it,” Sam answers as they round the corner into the schoolyard. “But I’m not gonna either.”

Across the yard, they see the clichéd school bully pushing some skinny, little kid in thick glasses around. Sam and Dean were just talking about the skinny kid last night on their walk back to the hotel. Not that they identify with him or anything…

They look at each other; Dean smirks and Sam arches a brow before they continue toward the ruckus.

“Hey, shithead,” Dean calls out, dropping his bag to the ground between himself and Sam, as they near the bully and his sphere of sycophants.

The bully straightens up then shoves the skinny kid one more time before squaring his shoulders and stalking toward Dean. “Who the hell are you?” the bully asks, looking Dean up and down with a sneer.

“Oh, I’m Dean,” he answers with a grin as he looks around at the suddenly baffled crowd, bolstering his hungry ego.

Before Sam can intervene, Dean’s projected right hook (projected to Sam only since he’s seen it so many times before) knocks the bully flat on his ass and then Dean’s steel-toe meets the kid’s jaw.

~~~~~~~

Blood spills and the fires of Hell begin to pour into the space like lava. It’s hot and putrid smelling, and Dean is just really fucking sick of all this gross shit day in and day out.

This witch is one more in a long line of idiots who thinks opening the gates of Hell – all of them – as wide and as permanently as possible is a super awesome idea.

“Just hold on, Dean,” Sam says. “It has to be at the exact moment.”

Sam and Rowena are back at the bunker, ready to pull Dean out of there as soon as he administers the potion.

_“It has to be released by the first-born son,” Rowena said, mock sympathy in her tone as she handed the bottle to Dean._

_“Sure,” Dean said. “Just make sure you got a firm hold on that lifeline back here to drag me out.” He turns toward the glowing portal. “Don’t get distracted with the tonsil hockey.”_

_Dean grinned wide when he heard Rowena scoff behind him as he jumped into the rift._

There’s some Latin uttered, some other language that Dean’s heard but doesn’t care to understand. He rolls his eyes and waits for the right phrase. The one he was told to wait for.

And then she says it: “Oh, what a beautiful bloodbath!” the witch sing-songs and twirls, her skirts, rising and flowing in waves.

Dean jumps into action. “Don’t forget the glitter, bitch,” he says, unleashing the potion sent with him by Rowena.

He can almost see Rowena’s glossy lips purse and that dimple deepen in disapproval of his language and general disdain for her kind from where she sits safely in the library back at the bunker.

“No offense,” he mutters under his breath.

“None taken, you uncultured little swine,” Rowena answers, miles separating them but communication clear as a blue-bird day – thanks to Rowena’s magic.

“Guys,” Sam says with a sigh. “Dean? Did it work?”

“Yeah,” Dean grunts as the blood and fires roll back to Hell, and the witch disintegrates before his eyes. “Now pull me back home. I need a cold beer. _Fuck_.”

~~~~~~~

“Patience is a virtue,” Castiel says, placing a palm to Sam’s forehead. “Or so I’ve heard.” He mutters, seemingly concentrating – on his task of healing Sam or trying to show off his newly obtained humanly references, Dean isn’t sure.

“Not right now it isn’t,” Dean whispers, scanning they’re surroundings as their attackers – vampires to be specifics – all 10 of them, begin to close in. “Can you speed it up a bit, Cas?!?”

“I’m trying,” Cas seethes, and then Sam is blinking his eyes open, wild and awake. His face is clear of blood and wounds.

Sam pops up to sitting and then shouts. “Dean! Behind you!”

Dean stands tall and spins, swings his hatchet at just the right height to take the vamps head off, and the three of them are back in action.

They clear out the nest and trudge back to the Impala, drive to their hotel room. Sam and Dean each shower, each employing Dean’s new favorite travel toy, the “Happy Hour In The Shower” beer holder. When he bought it Sam rolled his eyes, but even he has since found the simple joy and usefulness in it just as Dean said it would be – especially for the “low, low price of $12.97!”

As they settle back with their individual comforts, TV on some banal procedural drama, volume low, Dean recalls Cas’s sentiment from earlier in the evening.

Patience _is_ a virtue – just, sometimes he forgets and sometimes he can’t find it. Sometimes, his little brother is dying before his eyes, and all he can think to do is scream and rage. Even if Cas doesn’t really understand the concepts of patience, time, space – not the way humans do – Cas understands that Dean needs it and needs him.

And that’s the _real_ virtue.


End file.
